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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232483">Countdown (Another Chance for Us to Get It Right)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthony_crowley/pseuds/anthony_crowley'>anthony_crowley</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon'>waterofthemoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Dating, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, New Year's Eve, Party Hat Aziraphale, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:08:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,613</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthony_crowley/pseuds/anthony_crowley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The year the world doesn't end, Crowley and Aziraphale attend a New Year's Eve party, where a certain incident occurs that pushes them headlong into a whole new (and, if you ask either of them, frankly terrifying) phase of their relationship.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Countdown (Another Chance for Us to Get It Right)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Created for the DIWS Reverse Big Bang! It's been a blast to work on this so far, especially when it came to making life worse for poor Aziraphale in his extremely stylish party hat. 😄 Thanks to everyone who's provided support on this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
<a href="https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/781971690443767859/807415487222120458/Untitled-2.jpg">(click for full size!)</a>
  </p>
</div><p>It's New Year's Eve, on the cusp of 1991, and Aziraphale regrets ever showing up at this little soiree.</p><p>He could be at <em>home</em> right now, drinking something warm with a blanket over his lap and his television or radio tuned to a station with the countdown. Perhaps, if he was lucky, Crowley might sit beside him on the sofa instead of across from him.</p><p>Crowley's the whole reason he's here; <em>he</em> thought it would be more fun if they went out and crashed someone's party, like they used to do in the old days. There's been a restless energy about the old fiend all week, so Aziraphale didn't dare try to dissuade him from the idea.</p><p>Maybe he should have, he reflects now, as he turns in his chair. They're at someone's house party, likely university students judging by the crowd and the cheap furniture—Aziraphale has no idea and doesn't particularly care.</p><p>There's a gold party hat on his head, at an angle he thinks is a bit rakish. There was a pile of them on a table near the door, of the kind that involves cheap paper in a conelike shape, and while Crowley immediately discarded the idea of wearing one, he picked out this one for Aziraphale and arranged it himself, affectionately mussing Aziraphale's curls in the process.</p><p>"Looks good on you," Crowley said before practically bolting into the crowd, leaving Aziraphale feeling both warm inside and a bit at odds without him.</p><p>He decides to sit outside for a bit, where some festive flag bunting's been strung across the tiny patio. Some of the local neighbors have started celebrating early, so there's a fair amount of fireworks being set off at one of the nearby houses. Finding this to be the second most enjoyable part of the evening so far, Aziraphale certainly has no intention of dissuading them; he spares a quick prayer instead to ensure there won't be any loss of life, property damage, or other such nonsense.</p><p>So far, no one's asked too many awkward questions about him, and he intends to keep it that way, which tends to mean some amount of pretending to engage with the conversation going on around him. So he listens. There's some groaning about how intoxicated one of them got at someone's after-Christmas party last week, and some excited but anxious chatter about the courses they're all taking in the spring, and which professors they have, and the rumors they've heard about those professors' personal lives.</p><p>It doesn't interest Aziraphale at all, and he has no idea where Crowley's gotten off to. He gives in and checks his watch—just past eleven.</p><p>Aziraphale sighs and drains the last of his mulled wine, which he's been forced to drink out of a coffee mug due to their hosts' lack of appropriate glassware and his own unwillingness to compensate for their lack of preparation with a miracle, then excuses himself and cuts his way through the crowd in the direction of the kitchen.</p><p>Back inside, he runs into Crowley on the way there.</p><p>"Oh, good, there you are," Aziraphale says. Crowley's jacket is wrinkled in back, likely from him leaning insouciantly against something or other. Without stopping to think about it, Aziraphale huffs, sets his empty mug down, and tugs it to rights for him. When he pulls back, Crowley is uncharacteristically flushed in the face. "Where on earth have you been?"</p><p>"Mingling, same as you. Great party, isn't it?"</p><p>Crowley, Aziraphale notes now, seems to have had a change of heart—he's now wearing two of the party hats on his head like some kind of horned beast, a kind that favors metallic silver and a red that somehow clashes with Crowley's crimson silk shirt. </p><p>He raises an eyebrow at this new development, and Crowley just grins. "Not really," Aziraphale says, reclaiming his mug from the side table and wrinkling his nose at it.</p><p>"Suppose you're right. Still." Crowley points at two young women, not very far away from them. "I convinced her to break up with her boyfriend who's terrible for her, and I talked her friend into switching her major from business to classics. There's no money in it, but she'll be more or less happier, <em>and</em> it'll piss her parents off."</p><p>Aziraphale tries to work up some kind of disapproval about it, but it's hard when Crowley looks so proud of himself, and when he's smiling like that. "I thought we weren't working tonight?" he says instead.</p><p>"Aw, come on, angel. It's just fun. Keeping limber, you know." After a moment's hesitation, he extends his elbow to Aziraphale, who blushes a little himself and takes it. "Come on. You look like you need another drink."</p><p>Crowley's managed to scare up some kind of novelty glass with cartoon characters on it for himself, and he fills it up with more wine, then takes Aziraphale's mug from his hand and refills it. Their fingers touch when he hands it over.</p><p>Unwilling to let Crowley out of his sight again, Aziraphale leads them through the house until he finds a small sitting room with fewer people in it. It's not much to look at, but there's a television set and a sofa with a free end. Aziraphale immediately claims the side with the arm, and Crowley, to his delight, sits down next to him, close enough that their arms brush.</p><p>"Now it's a party, eh?" Crowley nudges Aziraphale in his side and drinks from his glass with the other. His competing hats, with his formerly coiffed bangs fluffing out from underneath them, look ridiculous in an unexpectedly charming way.</p><p>Aziraphale self-consciously reaches up and adjusts his own hat, then smiles gratefully. "As always, crashing is much more fun when we do it together." Some of the others in the room—likely to be fellow introverts and privacy-seekers, if they're holed up in here—give them speculative looks, but Aziraphale no longer cares what they think.</p><p>Despite his casual demeanor on the surface, Crowley's thrumming with energy—tapping his fingers on his leg, fiddling with the cuff of his shirtsleeve, taking nervous sips of his wine. Aziraphale's about to tell him off for all the fidgeting, or ask him what on Earth the matter is, but they end up sitting there for so long that before he knows it, three-quarters of an hour have passed and people have begun to drift outside to the patio for the countdown and official fireworks show.</p><p>"Do you want to join them?" Crowley asks. Aziraphale shakes his head—they may not be in his home, but he ended with nearly everything he wanted anyway. He threads his fingers through Crowley's, a loose handhold that Crowley doesn't pull away from. "Good. That's—good."</p><p>Without even pretending to look for the remote, Crowley snaps his fingers and turns the television on to the BBC with the volume on low. On screen, the presenters are raring to go with the countdown; Aziraphale, too, feels the anticipation in the room building.</p><p>"Ten," Crowley murmurs when it begins, very close to Aziraphale's ear. He can hear the echo of it from the other partygoers and from the television, but none of the other voices are as arresting as his. "Nine, eight…."</p><p>And then Crowley's lips are on his, and there are fireworks on the television, but they're nothing at all, a dull facsimile, compared to the sparks flying between the two of them, here together on this grubby old sofa. When Crowley starts to pull back, wide-eyed like he can't quite believe what's happening (despite his role in initiating it), Aziraphale chases his mouth and pulls him in again.</p><p>It is their first kiss. It is their first new year together after the events of last summer. Aziraphale intends to make it last.</p><p>Crowley tastes like the cheap wine they've been drinking and smells like smoke and a bit like vomit, or perhaps that's just the sofa. The frames of their glasses keep knocking together; the bridge of Aziraphale's is digging into his nose and making him regret not pulling them off when he had the chance.</p><p>But all the discomfort in the world can't erase that he's here with Crowley, unmistakably and irrevocably making out with him—the pressure of Crowley's mouth against his, the familiar shape of his lips, his hand gripping Aziraphale's in a bid to hold on. The slide of his tongue and the slightly crooked shapes of his teeth when they open up to each other.</p><p>Traditionally, Aziraphale thinks, they should have stopped kissing and toasted each other by now. He doesn't stop.</p><p>He doesn't stop until after the fireworks have ended, and until after the house has filled up with noise again, and until after no less than five people have walked into the room they're in and immediately turned around and wandered away.</p><p>He doesn't stop kissing Crowley, in fact, until his hand slides down the slick fabric of Crowley's shirt to caress the small of his back. Crowley jumps in his arms, visibly startled, and his lips still against Aziraphale's. He puts a hand on Aziraphale's chest and pushes him back, even as Aziraphale's already pulling away.</p><p>"Sorry," Crowley says. Even with Crowley's shades in place, Aziraphale can see he's avoiding eye contact. "I just really—I wanted—happy new year? Happy new world, really. Cheers."</p><p>He holds up his glass, and Aziraphale automatically clinks his mug against it. "There's nothing to be sorry for, dear. I was enjoying myself. Weren't you enjoying yourself?"</p><p>Aziraphale wonders where he went wrong, and whether he pushed Crowley too far with all the kissing—if Crowley acted impulsively and only meant to peck him on the mouth, and he took advantage of the situation. But Crowley shakes his head, then stops himself and begins nodding instead.</p><p>"Yeah, it was terrific," Crowley says. "You're—terrific. Best time of my life."</p><p>He doesn't look like it was, though. He looks small and vulnerable, and a bit caught out, and not at all the confident, smug creature Aziraphale always thought he'd be, if this ever happened between them. <em>Not</em> that Aziraphale has spent a great deal of time thinking about it.</p><p>Aziraphale then begins to worry whether he might be a bad kisser and Crowley just wanted out of the situation as gracefully as he could manage. It's not as if he has much experience in the matter. But that doesn't sound like Crowley, either; they've known each other too long to stand on ceremony like that.</p><p>"Well, if you're quite sure." Aziraphale lets go of the bit of magic keeping people out of the room and stands up, then offers a hand to Crowley. He offers a sigh of despair for the state of the room that witnessed them in the throes of—well, whatever you'd call it. "I think I've had about as much of this place as I can stand, haven't you? Let's go home."</p><p>"Yeah. Home. Okay." Crowley accepts his hand but drops it immediately once he's upright, as if it suddenly burns him to touch Aziraphale after he's been doing it all night. He follows Aziraphale to collect their coats, then out of the house and onto the relatively quieter street.</p><p>There are still parties going on around them, and people setting off sparklers, and all manner of things, but the Bentley is waiting for them, and all Aziraphale wants is a ride home and his own bed. He doesn't think Crowley will be willing to come in for a nightcap, which is perfectly fine—they ought to take things slow.</p><p>Crowley's quiet most of the way home. He's still wearing the twin party hats—Aziraphale's still wearing his, come to think of it—and it's incongruous with his tense shoulders and drawn face as the Bentley roars through the night. Aziraphale doesn't understand at all what the matter is. He wishes Crowley would tell him.</p><p>"Crowley…" he begins.</p><p>"Here we are," Crowley interrupts. Aziraphale glances out the window and frowns—sure enough, they're in front of the bookshop. "Happy new year, angel. It's got to be a better one than the last."</p><p>Aziraphale considers several tacks he could take to get Crowley to open up to him, discards all of them, and unbuckles his seatbelt to get out of the car. "Not nearly so eventful, I hope."</p><p>Crowley shudders. "Yeah. Let's hope for that."</p><p>On his way out of the car, Aziraphale decides he can't possibly leave well enough alone. He stops and pokes his head back in. "Nearly forgot—happy new year, Crowley."</p><p>He leans in, pecks Crowley on the cheek, and hurries out of the car, pulling his coat around him and hoping that wasn't too much. When he looks back, Crowley's staring after him, touching the spot Aziraphale kissed.</p><p>*</p><p>"Ngh!"</p><p>When he gets back to his flat, Crowley storms through the rooms until he reaches his bedroom, where he tosses his sunglasses onto the nightstand and throws himself down with a dramatic grunt. "Stupid. Incredibly stupid. <em>Monumentally</em> stupid."</p><p>He kissed Aziraphale. He kissed Aziraphale at midnight, like he planned, and Aziraphale kissed <em>back</em>. And it was just—the longer it went on, the more Crowley didn't want it to end, but at the same time, the more he felt—</p><p>It was just, like, there they were, on that old sofa that's probably seen more action than Crowley ever has, and he was being forced to confront both the reality of kissing Aziraphale after six thousand <em>blessed</em> years and the torrent of Aziraphale's passion, and it was just—too much. He couldn't hack it.</p><p>Crowley grabs one of his accent pillows, screams into it for a solid minute, then throws the pillow across the room, followed by the party hats. He immediately has regrets and goes to fetch both the pillow and hats, smoothing out a dent the crash landing left in the silver one. He was wearing those when he first kissed Aziraphale, after all. He ought to keep them as a souvenir.</p><p>It wasn't what he expected. He thought he'd feel less awkward, not more—that all the lip action would somehow smooth things over and pave the way for an easy transition in their relationship. He didn't think he'd feel like that. Like being kissed was both a lifeline and the thing drowning him.</p><p>He's thought about kissing Aziraphale, about maybe even becoming <em>romantically involved</em> with him for so long. Ages. Longer than ages. Forever.</p><p>Maybe he should call Aziraphale, he thinks. Just to make sure he doesn't think he did anything wrong. All the weirdness is on Crowley's end.</p><p>But then he thinks about having to explain himself to Aziraphale, and the idea of Aziraphale maybe pitying him or taking it the wrong way, and he feels like abusing the pillow again.</p><p>On the other hand, maybe Aziraphale would kiss him on the cheek again. Crowley doesn't think he'd mind that at all.</p><p>He falls asleep there, still in limbo where the angel's concerned, and doesn't even wake up when he hears pounding on his door.</p><p>*</p><p>It's been days, and Aziraphale hasn't heard from Crowley.</p><p>He thought they'd spend New Year's Day together; they often do, after attending a party the night before, although they don't usually go to parties so lacking in decent alcohol and general carousing. Perhaps Crowley simply didn't feel poorly enough to hole up with him. But he's called multiple times and only gotten Crowley's damnable ansaphone, and there's no reasoning with that thing.</p><p>Aziraphale tries to go about his business. He writes down his resolutions, then promptly burns the piece of paper in the fireplace so the wish will come true; he goes to see his barber and manicurist for touch ups he doesn't need; he tries to read, but none of his old favorites hold his attention for longer than a page or so, and the idea of starting something he hasn't read is presently too much of a daunting prospect.</p><p>Eventually, after wandering St. James Park aimlessly for hours, Aziraphale decides there's nothing else for it. He will simply have to go and call on Crowley in person. Surely then, he can discover what's bothering Crowley and help set him to rights. At the very least, he can recover his conversation partner.</p><p>On approaching Crowley's building, Aziraphale sidesteps the fresh wards intended to keep out Crowley's colleagues and takes the elevator up to Crowley's penthouse.</p><p>He's only been here a handful of times—the bookshop is just so much more convenient—but even if he never had, he would be able to pick out Crowley's dwelling from the others. There's a foreboding energy to it, but a comforting, familiar sort, the kind that says, to Aziraphale, <em>come in at your own risk</em> much more than <em>keep out if you know what's good for you</em>. On the whole, Crowley's always been worth the risk.</p><p>Not wanting to intrude, Aziraphale knocks on the door—politely at first, and then with a bit more force. When there's no answer after a quarter of an hour, he presses his palm to the lock of Crowley's door and kindly asks it to step aside, then enters, blinking into the sudden brightness. Crowley does keep such terribly modern decor.</p><p>"I say, Crowley, are you here?"</p><p>Aziraphale wanders through the flat, through all the stark white rooms, and eventually ends up outside Crowley's bedroom, the only closed door in the place. Here, he hesitates. It's one thing to enter Crowley's home without being certain he's there; to be sure, Crowley would do the same in his, and never mind that it doubles as a place of business.</p><p>But it's quite another to be standing here, dithering outside the one room besides the conservatory that he knows Crowley finds any true comfort in, the one room that ought to be the most private in a person's home. At this point, he should leave well enough alone and wait for Crowley to return his messages.</p><p>Even knowing all of that, he knocks.</p><p>"Crowley? If you're all right, just say." Aziraphale leans against the wall and tries to discern through it whether Crowley's actually in there. Somehow, he thinks he is. "If you don't—if you don't want to talk about it, I certainly won't force the issue."</p><p>Silence, except for a faint rustling that could be the bedsheets and could be wind through the curtains, assuming Crowley has curtains in his bedroom and that he's fond of keeping the window open (both unlikely). Aziraphale straightens up and bolsters himself with that most British of conversation fillers and peace offerings. "I could make us some tea?"</p><p>There's an irritated groan from inside the bedroom. It's the exact sound Crowley makes when he falls asleep in Aziraphale's armchair and wakes to find his spine misbehaving in the worst way, and Aziraphale feels a small, relieved smile steal across his face. At least he hasn't been pleading with an empty room.</p><p>After some more rustling, shuffling, and muffled cursing, the bedroom door bangs open. Crowley leans in the doorway, still dressed in the clothes he wore the last time Aziraphale saw him, although decidedly more rumpled now. His hair is tousled with sleep. Aziraphale wills his corporation not to blush.</p><p>"Crowley." He does not reach out to touch Crowley, even as much as his hands itch to renew the contact of several nights ago; they never have touched much, and it seems especially inappropriate now, when Crowley's obviously undergoing some inner turmoil over the whole thing. "It's good to see you."</p><p>"Mrph." Crowley yawns, then blinks at him and runs a hand through his hair, which has the effect of making it stand on end even more. "What're you doing here? I was fine."</p><p>"Well, how was I to know that?" Aziraphale snaps. It's a bit rich of Crowley, really. As if Aziraphale wouldn't fret about him after all they've been through, and especially <em>here</em>, despite the protections. "It's been days since I heard from you, I hope you know. I was starting to get worried."</p><p>At that, Crowley has the grace to look embarrassed. He glances down at his ridiculous, massive watch. "Ah. Is it really the fourth of January already?"</p><p>"Yes." Aziraphale shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. "That offer of tea still stands, if you want it. Or perhaps even… breakfast?" He checks his own watch. "Or lunch, rather, at this late hour."</p><p>Crowley scoffs at the jab, then offers up a tentative smile. "Brunch it is," he decides, apparently taking the peace offering for what it is. "I know a place."</p><p>*</p><p>Seated at brunch—not one of those new trendy places, like Aziraphale feared, but a tiny cubbyhole of a cafe, barely big enough to fit three tables, that so far has provided him with a much welcomed mimosa after the morning he's had—Aziraphale considers Crowley in front of him.</p><p>He's known Crowley since the beginning. There's always been a bit of push and pull to their relationship, especially after they shook on the Arrangement, and there's a chance he's pushed too far this time. Crowley looks hunched and drawn, even after downing his first mug of coffee and half of his second in two large gulps. If they hadn't gone to that awful party at all—if Aziraphale hadn't—</p><p>But Crowley wanted to, didn't he? He initiated the kissing—Aziraphale's sure of it.</p><p>He takes another sip of his cocoa to fortify himself. There's no way around it, he supposes.</p><p>"Crowley," he begins. "I know we aren't much in the habit of talking about... things."</p><p>"What do you mean? We talk all the time." Crowley waves his hand back and forth between them. "We're talking right now."</p><p>Aziraphale shakes his head. "I mean... about us. <em>You</em> know."</p><p>The waitress drops off their plates—English breakfast for both of them, with French toast on Aziraphale's and practically burnt on Crowley's. Aziraphale smiles at her as she departs. Crowley shovels some of his eggs onto the toast and takes an enormous bite, then nods at Aziraphale to continue.</p><p>"I mean about…" Aziraphale winces at the crumbs escaping the corners of Crowley's lovely mouth but presses on. "Relationship things."</p><p>Crowley swallows and pulls a face. "Eugh. Do we have to? Back at my flat, you said I didn't have to."</p><p>"Yes, but... we should, shouldn't we?" Aziraphale cuts into his sausage, then looks up, wishing he were better at this. Wishing Crowley hadn't gone into hiding so they could have had this over and done with straight off. "If we're to get past it."</p><p>"There's nothing to get past," Crowley retorts. "We kissed. People do it all the time, the whole kissing at midnight thing. End of story." He oversalts one of his tomatoes, probably because he knows how irritating Aziraphale finds that, and shoves the entire thing in his mouth.</p><p>"Oh, but... does it have to be?" Aziraphale takes a bite, chews his food thoughtfully, swallows. This really is quite a good little spot Crowley's found. They'll have to remember where it is so they can come back. "The end of the story, I mean."</p><p>It comes out more wistful than he intends, and it's not what he meant to say, anyway. When Crowley doesn't answer right away, Aziraphale hurries to backtrack, fearing he's overstepped again. He and Crowley know each other so well; this shouldn't have to be so <em>difficult</em>. "I don't mean to pressure you. If you hated it, of course we'll never do it again. But… at the time, it did seem…."</p><p>It seemed like something enormous, and yet something so small in the scheme of things, that kiss. It felt like inventing something new and joining the grand tradition of things all at once.</p><p>Crowley glances away, then back. "I didn't hate it," he says.</p><p>"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaims. That does change things, knowing that. Having it confirmed, and all. He knows what Crowley really means by <em>I didn't hate it</em>; he always has. "Oh, good. So you…."</p><p>"I liked it." Crowley presses his teeth into his lower lip. "A lot. It was just… not what I thought it would be. I didn't know I'd feel like that." A low chuckle escapes his throat. "A bit too fast for me. Funny, that."</p><p>They exchange smiles, tentative and hopeful. Aziraphale sees his own feelings reflected back in Crowley's familiar countenance.</p><p>"I do have feelings for you, you know," Aziraphale says. He wraps his fingers around Crowley's and squeezes. "Quite a lot of them. It's really very inconvenient sometimes."</p><p>"Yeah." Crowley squeezes back. "I know. Same here."</p><p>"Well, what do we do about it now?"</p><p>Crowley frowns. "Humans date," he says slowly. "We could try doing that. Just."</p><p>His grip on Aziraphale's hand tightens; Aziraphale holds on while Crowley sorts out whatever it is he needs to say. </p><p>"Just go easy on me with the kissing, all right?" Crowley asks. "Just for now. You're way too good at that part."</p><p>A flood of relief overtakes Aziraphale. He didn't ruin anything. Everything's going to be all right.</p><p>"I mean, I really liked it," Crowley continues. "Just so we're clear. I don't ever want you to think I didn't."</p><p>"Of course, my dear." Aziraphale sets his fork down and pats their joined hands with his now liberated one. "I liked it, too. We'll go as slowly as we both want, and we'll get back to it, I'm sure of it."</p><p>He looks around at the two of them in this cozy little cafe, holding hands and getting weepy about it while their food goes largely untouched. "Is this a date? Are we dating right now?"</p><p>Crowley grins like the setting sun, unexpectedly bright and radiant. "Yeah, angel, if you want it to be," he says. "This can be our first date."</p><p>*</p><p>After quite a good brunch—they'll have to remember that place—Crowley drives Aziraphale back to the bookshop. He even manages to hold hands with him all the way there without combusting or otherwise acting like a weirdo about it, which he decides to be impressed with himself about.</p><p>He illegally parks the Bentley outside the bookshop and goes in with Aziraphale, because after getting things squared with Aziraphale, he felt a bit put out about sleeping through their post-party crashing gab session. Well, no time like the present to make up for lost time, that's what they always say. Something to that effect.</p><p>"Are you coming?" Aziraphale calls. He's already made it to the back room, while Crowley hovers in the doorway. "And are we day drinking? Only I've just gotten a case of a lovely white in, if you want."</p><p>Keeping his arm low and making sure he's outside of Aziraphale's field of vision, Crowley pumps his fist once in quiet self-congratulations. He hasn't screwed everything up. It's all going to be okay.</p><p>"Obviously, yes to day drinking." He strides through the shop and deposits himself on Aziraphale's sofa, where Aziraphale joins him after fetching the bottles and glasses. "Now come on, tell me what you <em>really</em> thought of that party. Us aside, I mean. It was terrible, right?"</p><p>Aziraphale laughs and passes him a glass. "Not for them. By our standards, without a doubt." His expression turns misty. "Remember Saturnalia?"</p><p>"How could I forget?"</p><p>They continue in that vein for some time, rehashing and reminiscing, and as Crowley wraps his arm around Aziraphale, he's encouraged all over again by the way Aziraphale tucks himself into his side.</p><p>It's all right, this dating thing. They'll figure it out as they go.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much for reading! You can find us on Tumblr as <a href="http://agardeneden.tumblr.com">@agardeneden</a> and <a href="https://waterofthemoon.tumblr.com">@waterofthemoon</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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